


each of these bodies is our own

by DefineSane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:42:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefineSane/pseuds/DefineSane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft were raised apart from a young age and don't recognize each other when they meet years later. Unhappiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	each of these bodies is our own

**Author's Note:**

> De-anoning on a response to this prompt on the kink meme:  http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=108829007#t108829007   
> I edited the ending slightly because it was bothering me, but it is otherwise the same unbeta'd, unbritpicked oddness I posted on the kink meme.

Bodies are nothing special. Sherlock always knew that, ever since a childhood with gangly limbs he never quite grew into the way he hoped he would, and right through a career examining the ones that didn’t move anymore. Bodies were just vehicles, transport for the mind.

There was an undeniable fascination to them, though—reproductive instinct, perhaps? Masculine bodies would not be so appealing to him if that were the case, though.

Mycroft’s body _certainly_ would not even merit acknowledgement, not with the incest taboo so deeply embedded in society.

And yet.

They move together, synchronized by habit and smug knowledge. They used to laugh at this, before. But that was before, the very short, and perfect time of before.

Mycroft was sent away so young, when he was only nine-years-old, and Sherlock still crawling around and gnawing on anything he could get his tiny two-year-old hands on. They had had to re-childproof the whole house because Sherlock kept finding his way into perilous places. And Mycroft spent his young-adulthood in France with their grandmother. Sherlock was barely aware of his existence, too caught up in his own self-love.

Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to ask his name when he had picked him up at a bar near his university in London, and it wasn’t until the day after, after all sorts of _feelings_ had formed that they had that conversation. There weren’t many Mycrofts in the world. 

Sherlock, an emotionally-stunted eighteen-year-old at the time, had made up a fake name. Mycroft must have known that’s what he had done, but he didn’t mention it until a week later, a week they spent in Sherlock’s flat (his mail all stuffed in cupboards, his school ID hidden under the mattress, all identifying evidence tucked away to be dealt with later) and the two men threw themselves into a whirlwind romance.

When Mycroft finally left, Sherlock knew enough about him to know that things would not be the same when he returned. Mycroft was too smart not to check up on his background.

The slap of a folder against his kitchen table.

“Sherlock Holmes. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Mycroft’s voice was hard, his mouth twisted up. Sherlock’s fingers were clumsy as they attempted a nonchalant flip through the folder. A copy of his school records with his photo attached, his birth certificate, his name plastered on every page. As he got to the end, there were more candid shots, CCTV images. Sherlock tweaked Mycroft’s position in the government up a few notches.

“Mummy told me you had emotional issues, but I can’t say I believed her until now.” Mycroft spoke calmly, but a trembling hand ran through the hair at his temples.

“How dare you invade my privacy!” was what Sherlock had shouted, but what he really meant was _why would you ruin the most perfect part of my life?_

A hand on his shoulder. Mycroft pushing him into the wall.

“How dare you let me care for you like that!” A vicious whisper, his other hand pulling on Sherlock’s hair, and oh God oh God. A knee pushed up between his thighs and Sherlock wanted this so badly it hurt, wanted to be used by this man he fit so perfectly with, wanted to give everything until he was an empty husk. Take the anger, take the pain, Sherlock didn’t want it anymore, he just wanted Mycroft, teeth against the tendon in his neck, toes curling in his shoes, and he grabbed Mycroft’s wrists so hard his own hands hurt with the crunch of bones and blood vessels, blood, why is it the same, they looked nothing alike, but the buttons popped off Mycroft’s cuffs too easily and Sherlock wore a t-shirt, too hot, too hot, his head feeling so swollen he didn’t think he could pull it off, so instead he fell to his knees, dragged Mycroft’s trousers and pants off his hips, and sucked his brother off as he listened to the panting above him.

Neither of them said no.

-

Fifteen years had changed very little between them.

They fought. They scratched at each other’s souls. And then they went to bed.

The apartment Mycroft kept specifically for these times is immaculately clean, and Sherlock had always hated it. He still hates it as he straddles Mycroft’s narrow hips (his weight had dropped recently, he had been eating significantly less since Sherlock’s move to 221B). Sherlock squishes down the distaste for the bareness of their surroundings, digging shallowly to get to that place in his conscience that only Mycroft occupied, where they were distinct from all outside influences.

Mycroft flips them, landing on top, pressing into Sherlock’s skin in a most fascinating way, and something dark and warm curls in Sherlock’s belly.

“Darling,” Mycroft breathes over his skin, and Sherlock’s breath hitches. Mycroft had started calling him that in public in recent years, a dip into the terrifying possibility of being found out. John flashes into his mind, John who knows him almost as well as Mycroft, who so often sees through his pretenses.

Sherlock gasps as he said, “Don’t—don’t call me that in front of John.”

All movement ceases until Mycroft squeezes his knees tight around Sherlock, then rolls to sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches for a pack of cigarettes.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it is uncouth when in bed with someone to talk about another?”

Mycroft always criticized Sherlock’s manners when he was hurt.

“John and I are not in a relationship.”

“Don’t be tedious. It’s only a matter of time before you attempt it. Can’t you just leave our tryst alone until that time comes? I certainly don’t have anyone that will warm my bed when you’re done with me.”

“Don’t pout. You know that’s not what this is about.” 

“Then what is it about?”

“I love you, Mycroft.”

His eyes softened. “I know. I just wish that was enough for you.”

“It would be if… if things were different.” Sherlock found his own vagueness irritating. If they weren’t siblings. Just say it. Verbalizing it changes nothing, why is it so difficult?

“God.” Mycroft breathes out the cigarette smoke, a pained smile tucked behind a shaking hand. “If only you had realized that when you were eighteen.”

-

When a body hits the ground, when Sherlock’s supposed body hits the ground, when Sherlock’s body hits the ground for everyone save Molly, Mycroft is the first he thinks to call.

Mycroft will call him insane, might even raise his voice if Sherlock is steadfast enough in his resolve. But Mycroft will help him erase all evidence of Sherlock’s continued existence.

They’re brothers, after all.


End file.
